Season of the Witch (8 page)

“Absolutely. I love the idea. And it’s about time I made some use of my expense account,” I say.

Holtagata is a picturesque little street overlooking the town center, not far from the church and the high school, where Björg lives in a charming old house. Pal apparently recognizes the place and greets it with a low bark.

Björg lets us in. She’s a smiling, shy girl of about seventeen, with long, dark hair parted in the middle, green almond eyes, and full, unpainted lips. She wears a ring in one nostril. Of average height, she is slender, dressed in tight-fitting black pants and a black blouse. She bends down over Pal, who greets her with enthusiastic wagging of his stubby tail and licks her hand. She invites us into the living room, on the left of the entrance hall, and offers us something to drink. I accept a Coke and Jóa, a glass of water. Björg goes to the kitchen across the hall to fetch them. As we enter the living room, we are briefly struck dumb. The room is neat as a pin, with hardwood parquet flooring and white furniture. But it is also crammed with cacti: big cacti, little cacti, tall and short, and of all possible varieties I cannot identify.

“You’ve got a whole lot of cacti here” is my scintillating remark when Björg enters the living room with our drinks.

“Yes, Mom loves cacti,” she replies in her slow, reserved manner. “She likes the way they look.”

“And they don’t need a lot of care or attention, do they?” I say. “Don’t they more or less live on air?”

She makes no response. She seems to be waiting for us to sit down on the pristine white furniture. So we do: Jóa next to me on the sofa and Björg on the chair facing us, with Pal on her lap. He seems at ease there.

“Are you a student at the high school?”

“No,” replies Björg, fidgeting restlessly in her chair. She is clearly not used to media attention. “I dropped out last spring. I’m taking some time out to decide what I want to do. Maybe I’ll go back to school. I don’t know.”

“In search of yourself, like the rest of us?” I ask with a smile.

“I suppose. I’ve been doing some work at my mom’s architectural studio. Helping out.”

“So your mom’s an architect?”

She nods.

“Do you want to be an architect too?”

“I don’t know what I want yet.”

“Do you happen to know a girl at the high school, Sólrún Bjarkadóttir?”

She smiles wryly. “The one who made a fool of herself in your paper.”

“Well, she was made a fool of. But it wasn’t entirely her fault.”

“I don’t know her. But I heard she had a rough time in school last year. She had no friends and was alone a lot. I think maybe she’s gotten into bad company.”

“And bad company’s better than no company?”

“I didn’t say that,” she says. I detect intelligence and a strong will behind her reserved exterior.

“OK,” I say, starting the tape recorder. “Let’s begin at the beginning.”

The story began when she was walking down by the docks and saw some boys of about ten chasing a little dog. Björg recounts the whole story, articulately and complete with self-deprecating humor. While Jóa is taking photos I wander around the living room. Against one wall is an old piano. Among the cacti on top of it stand several framed photographs of Björg with an attractive woman, presumably her mother, at various ages: she is about the same height as Björg but with fairer skin and hair—worn up in all the pictures—but the resemblance is striking. Mother and daughter wear beaming smiles in every single photo. I suggest that Jóa takes some photos of Björg and Pal in front of the piano. As we take our leave, I ask Björg:

“You live here with your mother, do you?”

She nods.

“This Kjartan Arnarson,” I ask, “the teacher who got into this embarrassing situation. What’s he like?”

“I was never in any of his classes,” Björg replies. “He looks a bit odd, but I’ve always heard that he’s nice enough.”

We wish her a happy Easter and set off for the car with Pal on his leash. The dog glances back toward the house with a muffled bark.

PAL’S ADVENTURE IN AKUREYRI
Once upon a time there was a little dog named Pal…

I start my heartwarming essay on the mutt and his savior. As I add the finishing touch to my account with the words
And they all lived happily ever after
, I find myself suddenly overcome with exhaustion. I swing my feet up onto the desk and light up. The back of my chair almost touches the closed door. So my closet of an office is, according to my rough calculations, about as long as my coffin will be. It’s past five o’clock. I send in my piece and immediately feel better. I stand up and go to the break room. Ásbjörn, Karó, and Pal have gone upstairs. I can hear quiet barking through the wooden ceiling. Jóa has sent in her pics, and she says she’s going to a movie. I’m going home to lie down. But I have a cup of black coffee without sugar all the same. I light another cigarette and return to my closet. On top of the pile is the third of the message slips, the one I couldn’t identify. Karólína has written the name
Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir
and a telephone number. I pick up the phone and ring.

“
Hóll
. Good afternoon,” answers a woman’s voice.

“
Hóll
?” I ask. “What’s that?”

“
Hóll
is a care home.”

“I see. My name is Einar. I got a message to contact Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir. Is she a member of staff or a resident?”

“Gunnhildur lives here with us.”

“May I speak to her?”

“That depends. For instance, on how she is. Or whether she’s awake. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll find out.”

I wait for two minutes.

“Gunnhildur is asleep. She’s had a difficult time for the past few days. Especially yesterday and today.”

“Oh? Was it something in particular?”

“It’s always hard to lose a child. Even when you’re nearly eighty and sometimes a bit confused.”

“What happened?”

“Her daughter died yesterday, after an accident. She fell into the Jökulsá River on Saturday and sustained a severe head trauma. She died without regaining consciousness.”

“Would you let her know that Einar returned her call?”

“Yes, I will.”

I thank her and hang up, wondering what Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir can want with me. On top of everything else, can I have made some mistake in reporting the accident?

Then I go home to Polly, hastily clean and tidy the apartment to prepare it for my daughter’s arrival, and try to put from my mind this day of joy and tribulation for Icelandic families.

“Hi, Dad,” says Gunnsa’s sweet voice.

“Gunnsa, darling. It’s so good to hear you. Are you all packed for tomorrow?”

“Ahem,” Gunnsa clears her throat. “I’m packing. But not necessarily for a flight to Akureyri. Ahem. Ahem.”

I am so taken aback that I almost drop the phone. “What is it? Is something wrong? Are you ill? Are you going into the hospital?”

“No, no, no. Raggi’s mom has invited us both to Copenhagen for Easter. There was some megadeal this morning, and our flight’s this afternoon.”

My heart drops at least five feet.

“Hello? Hello? Dad?”

“Yeah, I’m still here,” I sigh. “I’m here, somewhere.”

“Sorry, Dad,” says Gunnsa, in her gentlest tone. “But I’ve never been to Copenhagen. I reeeeeally want to go. You’ve been, haven’t you?”

“What? Yes, but not until I was eighteen.”

“It was different back then. There weren’t any megadeals.”

I pick myself up off the floor of my closet.

“No, that’s true. There were no megadeals then.”

“Mom says it’s OK with her. Please, Dad, say it’s OK with you.”

“But you’ve never been to Akureyri either.” I’m flailing around for an argument.

“No, but I can come another time. Akureyri’s in Iceland.”

“There are loads of Danish houses here.”

Gunnsa is taken by surprise. “Danish houses?”

“Yep, old Danish houses.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Or houses in Danish style. They’re really pretty.”

She laughs. “Houses in Danish style in Akureyri. You’re so funny, Dad!”

I’m about to tell her that Akureyri has its own
Rádhústorg
, or Town Hall Square, just like Copenhagen’s
Rådhuspladsen
, and
the only pedestrian shopping street in Iceland, like
Strøget
. But then I realize that this is yet another lost cause. “Well, Gunnsa, sweetheart, it’s all right so far as I’m concerned, but I have to say, I’ve really been looking forward to your visit.”

“I’ll come soon. Promise.”

“OK. So it’s just you and Raggi and Rúna going to Copenhagen?”

Gunnsa hesitates before answering: “Well, the three of us, and some guy Rúna’s been seeing.”

Now it’s my turn to hesitate before saying, “Have a good trip, honey, and have fun. But take care in Nyhavn.”

The worst that could happen has happened. I sit frozen in my closet with the conversation with my daughter like an albatross around my neck, crushed with self-pity and disappointment. Then I start trying to talk myself around: Of course it isn’t the worst that could happen. Gunnsa’s not dead. She’s alive and
kicking, happy and cheerful, on her way to Copenhagen for Easter with her boyfriend. When I was fifteen, wouldn’t I have preferred to go to Copenhagen with my girlfriend rather than visit my old man in Akureyri? Admittedly, when I was fifteen I didn’t have a girlfriend. And my dad wasn’t in Akureyri. And back then Easter was a Christian festival, not a time of megadeals. But the answer to my question was nonetheless as clear as the view of the wall next door.

No, the second-worst thing that could happen has happened.

And then there’s this thing about Raggi’s mom, Rúna, and some guy. Why is that gnawing away at my cerebral cortex? It’s all selfishness. Selfishness and importunity.

Einar, you’re selfish and importunate
, I say to the stranger reflected in the computer screen.

He makes no reply.

You’re a free man
, I go on.
Enjoy your freedom. Here in Akureyri. Over Easter.

And the man on the screen replies:
Yeah. Enjoy the suffering.

Ouch.

Who knows, maybe I’ll be offered some megadeal of my own over Easter, here in Akureyri? I try to convince myself I’m doing all right and reach for the phone.

“Good morning.
Hóll
.” A male voice this time.

“Good morning. May I speak to Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir?”

“Just a moment.”

I wait two minutes.

“No, I’m afraid Gunnhildur is having her bath. Can I take a message?”

I say no and thank him. No doubt the old lady has completely forgotten that she called some journalist called Einar—and even why she made the call. I consider contacting Kjartan Arnarson following the publication of Trausti Löve’s prominent apology on today’s front page. I decide against it. I kept my word.

Instead I return to the piece I’m hammering together about a press conference held at Hotel KEA this lunchtime, presenting the report of a project group on the future development of the local Eyjafjördur region. The minister for regional affairs was there, along with the mayor and the project board. They all shook hands and patted each other on the back and congratulated each other on finally reaching the conclusion that more diversity was required in the regional economy, with particular emphasis on
clusters in the fields of education and research, health care, tourism, and food production, in a family-friendly community that will be sought after for its good services, potential for education, and leisure activities, all grounded in a diverse, developed, specialized, and competitive economy with strong international ties…
Which is how the population and job opportunities are supposed to increase by an average of 2.3 percent per annum, so that by 2020 the population of the Eyjafjördur region will be twice what it is today, or around thirty thousand. Headline:

A WORLD-CLASS FUTURE

“I think this is the fifth or sixth report on regional development since I’ve been here,” remarked my colleague on the
Morning News
with a cynical smile. He’s been in Akureyri for years on end.

“They always launch them with a huge fanfare, then quietly file them away in a drawer. In the end, they don’t want to spend the money.”

Who knows?
I think to myself. It’s only a few weeks until the general election: that kind of pressure can work miracles.

In addition to the regional development piece, I send in a dramatic account of a crime wave in Akureyri. People with nothing better to do have been vandalizing park benches around the town, where tired townspeople have hitherto been able to rest their weary bones. There are about fifty benches in total, and as fast as municipal workers replace them, the vandals come back to kick them to pieces all over again. I type in the headline:

VANDALS ON THE BENCH

and switch off my computer.

“Is there no real crime here, Adalheidur?”

“Call me Heida.”

Adalheidur “Heida” Heimisdóttir, editor and publisher of the
Akureyri Post
, raises a manicured hand with long nails, varnished blue to complement her pantsuit. She lifts a forkful of halibut and pasta to her reddened lips and takes a sensual bite with her white teeth.